


Sherlock Is Just Right

by sirenscall



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jim's POV, M/M, PWP, his comment in TFP is to blame for this, minor Jim/his bodyguards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:05:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9704021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenscall/pseuds/sirenscall
Summary: It's hard to find someone who can last and revel in the afterglow. (Loosely 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears' themed.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for ruining a beloved children's story.

He keeps few close to him, much easier that way to maintain anonymity. But he does need some protection in his line of work. Trust doesn't come swiftly, his guards have to earn it. Still, everyone has to start somewhere.

But the problem with the new ones is the same: they're all too eager to impress. And he's finding that that boring quality also extends to the bedroom.

This one at least has dark hair, long enough for Jim to run his fingers through, but lacks the curls that he would like.

It seems like they've only just started when it's already over. Jim looks to the clock. Five minutes. _Five_ minutes is not enough time for anything... pleasurable. Just clutching and prodding, as though afraid to miss a spot.

At least it's warm in his partner's arms. Although Jim's still half-hard cock makes for more than a little discomfort. And all without the chance to conjure up his favorite image when he's alone, or not alone: 'What's under the Belstaff?'

 

Even less warrant a repeat performance. It happens when he's beyond bored, which, to his immense irritation, is always. But he doesn't have impossible standards, just specific ones.

He sees promise in the lanky body. Perhaps if Jim keeps his eyes shut, he can focus solely on that and get swept up in waves of distraction. But even as he thinks it he knows it's futile. He can never entirely forget that this body's just a stand in.

This guard's a sharpshooter, always has been. Every touch is well announced, every move is calculated, every stroke is exactly the same. Everything goes according to plan, down to Jim counting the minutes passing in his head. This one has stamina, Jim can't deny that, but he lacks that personal flair.

It's inevitable that Jim's mind wanders. A slow smile spreads across his face as the image of his favorite detective comes into focus. It's all it takes for Jim to work himself to completion, having laid here long enough already.

When he wakes, he finds himself cold and alone. Even that's not surprising. This partner's value as a bodyguard is his liability as anything else, a man who's unencumbered by any sort of human attachment.

Then again, it's not like Jim's heart is in it either.

 

Their clothes come off in a heated frenzy, buttons scatter across the floor.

He's dreamed of this moment too many times to be patient any longer. He must feel, kiss, mark everywhere he can reach. And those curls, every bit as soft as he's always imagined, to them he never wants to let go.

He almost dares not to look, afraid that the long fingers working him open suddenly belong to someone else. "Oh..." when a third one is added and he raises his hips to give the man above him better access, "don't... stop."

With a clever crook of fingers, the man grazes Jim's prostate. Only enough to tease but it has Jim erratically bucking his hips, urging him on. Of course his partner is just as stubborn as he and keeps the same pace.

He opens his eyes and is greeted by the smirking face of Sherlock Holmes. "Anything the matter, James?"

"Nothing at all," he answers through gritted teeth, "William."

Sherlock chuckles and even Jim can't contain a grin. Only the detective would dare be so brazen but it's part of his charm. As is his use of his other hand that's suddenly stroking Jim's cock.

His head falls back at the dual stimuli, uncaring what it is Sherlock does to him, as long as he's doing _something._ And the alternating speeds are torture of the sweetest kind; he would spill anything.

He needs more. They both do as Sherlock pulls back. Skin so fresh, so smooth that even when Sherlock slicks himself up in anticipation is he statuesque. Jim spreads his legs further apart and arches back in silent consent. Sherlock settles between his thighs.

They take a moment, Sherlock to adjust and Jim to savor the feel of the other man inside him. But they soon fall into a rhythm in which Jim can relish the pop of dilated pupils against light irises, the flush of skin as the detective's tentative grasp on control unravels, that _he's_ the one to elicit this reaction. Sherlock always takes the criminal's flirting in stride, and fires back as good as he gets, but now he's reduced to grinding hips and shuddering breaths.

Not that Jim fares any differently, he fastens his legs around Sherlock's torso to pin them together. He doesn't just want Sherlock deeper, he wants him closer.

Thankfully, Sherlock seems to understand with the way he changes the angle of his thrusts. And Jim clenches tighter around him as his own cock is straining, leaking. He tries to reach between them when his hand is swatted away, instead it's Sherlock who takes him in his hand again. That added sensation is enough to send Jim tumbling over the edge, with Sherlock following just after.

There's a moment of panic when Sherlock sits up but it's only to wipe his hand and stomach before he lays back down, spent. Jim doesn't so much curl next to as he does lay half on top of the other man. "What?" he asks innocently. "I'm being a good host, darling. It's bad manners to just love 'em and leave 'em."

"Mmm, no," is Sherlock's response. Although he does put an arm around Jim. "If that were true, it would be _my_ head, _your_ chest."

He can fall asleep like this, decides he'll try to instead of finish this line of inquiry. "Be a dear and rub my back."

Complying, Sherlock adds with mirth, "Jim Moriarty, the world's only consulting criminal... likes to cuddle." He hisses when a set of teeth lock onto his nipple.

Jim runs his tongue over to soothe the sting of his teeth. Rather than dignify Sherlock's assertion, he buries his face further in the man's chest. It's all true anyway. He can feel the thumping from Sherlock's heart against his ear. Piece by piece Jim is burning it out of him and taking it for his own.

It's only fair, Sherlock already has his.


End file.
